


Long Cool Woman (in a Black Dress)

by BaronVonChop



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternative Universe - FBI, Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Flirting, Guns, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:33:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonChop/pseuds/BaronVonChop
Summary: Federal agent Ben Karoly was about to spring the biggest bust of his career, but would the new singer at Hondo's put it all in jeopardy?





	Long Cool Woman (in a Black Dress)

They kept the lights low at Hondo’s, the way the clientele liked it. They didn’t much appreciate being eyeballed, and besides, most of them weren’t much to look at. The regulars were a seedy bunch: moonshiners, hustlers, bootleggers, gamblers, cut-throats, and worse. A band played a smooth, formless tune on stage, and the mellow notes mingled with the clink of glasses and the murmur of private conversations.

Ben Karoly knew all the types who frequented Hondo’s, from the deceptively classy to the downright disreputable. Looking at him, one would surmise that Ben fell somewhere in the middle. On closer inspection, perhaps his suit was better tailored, his blue eyes were keener, and certainly his beard was better-groomed than the average patron at Hondo’s. Ben kept himself inconspicuous by not being too inconspicuous. It took practice to find the balance between inviting attention to oneself and looking like someone with something to hide, and Ben had a knack for finding that balance. It was one of the many skills he had honed over the years as a special agent for the Bureau.

He had chosen the night for the bust carefully. In a few minutes, squads of agents waiting outside would swoop in through the entrances, and the city would wake the next morning to find its most notorious gangsters behind bars. Months of careful preparation had all led up to this. All he had to do was give the signal.

He ran his fingers over the cool glass of his gin and tonic, so far untouched, and mentally prepared himself. He glanced at “Cad” Blaine by the bar, whose wide-brimmed hat and duster would have been more appropriate further West. Blaine would be trouble, and Ben would have to be ready for it.

The band on stage consisted of seven musicians in identical black outfits playing a piano and various wind instruments. They ended their song to a smattering of applause. Ben felt that the time had arrived to signal the raid. He reached into his jacket pocket, but then his hand froze.

A pale woman emerged onto the stage. She wore a long black dress that showed a flash of leg with each step she took. Her ash-blonde hair was cut short at the sides and longer on top, where it was parted on one side. Ben found himself fascinated by the alluringly lupine shape of her face. Something about her eyes, her cheekbones, and the shape of her mouth gave her a hungry look.

Ben hesitated, telling himself he would give the signal after just one more moment to observe this woman. Then she stepped up to the microphone, closed her eyes, and sang.

The note cut through the room, and all chatter stopped. Every eye turned to the woman on stage, but her eyes remained closed. The band started playing again, and they settled into a slow, rolling tune, but Ben only heard her voice. It was low and smoky, predatory and sensual.

His hand drifted from his pocket back to the table without him being aware of it. He sat spellbound, lost in her voice. It washed over him and into him, stirring something in his imagination that he could not quite name.

Before he knew it, the song ended. The crowd sat in stunned silence for a moment. People began to clap, and the sound grew until it filled the room. Ben may have been the only one not clapping. Instead, he sat listening to the echoes of her voice in his mind. He knew he should give the signal now, before she started singing again and held him helpless once more, but his hand did not move from the table.

The low notes of the next song ended his indecision. He settled back, enraptured once more. The singer’s dark, narrow eyes swept the room, casting a haughty look over the gathered denizens. Ben sat up straighter, transfixed, yearning for her to glance his way. When she did, her eyes paused only briefly before moving on. Ben’s breath caught in his throat. He felt an exquisite paradox: the song sounded so intensely personal, and yet the singer barely registered his presence.

It felt far too soon when she finished her final song and bowed. The crowd clapped, and there were a few cheers and whistles. Ben clapped, too, feeling like he was coming out of a dream. A large part of him regretted that the woman’s performance ever had to end. Another, more responsible part of him, felt relieved that now he could go back to doing his job. If he delayed too long, the whole operation might be in jeopardy.

The operation would have to wait. She was walking down the stairs at the edge of the stage. She threaded her way between the tables, each step silky and smooth. Ben’s breath caught in his throat. She was coming his way.

A voice next to him made him jump. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Ben spun around so quickly that he almost knocked his drink over. Hondo, the place’s owner, stood beside his chair, a gold tooth gleaming in his grin. Ben had never been able to place Hondo’s accent or figure out where he was originally from. Hondo’s glittering eyes and lined, leathery skin hinted at a lifetime of far-flung chicanery. 

Ben collected himself with an effort. “Hello, Hondo.”

Hondo chuckled. “If you had stared any harder, your eyes would have fallen out of your head. Plop! Plop!”

Ben tried to maintain his composure. “It was quite a performance.” He glanced over and saw that the singer was nearly to his table. Ben wondered if Hondo planned to stick around when she arrived.

“Ah, Karoly, you have a gift for understatement,” Hondo said with a sigh. “I do not think this place will see a performance like that ever again.” Ben examined Hondo’s face. For someone so animated, Hondo could be surprisingly hard to read. Ben wished he knew how much the shrewd businessman knew, or suspected, about Ben’s real occupation. Could he have caught wind of the raid tonight?

Before Ben could think on it further, the singer reached his table. She nodded to Hondo and walked past without ever even looking at Ben. He could not help but watch her go, hoping the disappointment was not too clear on his face.

She stopped at the table where “Grievous” Gene Roll and his goons sat, surrounded by a yellow cloud of cigar smoke. Roll was a cadaverous man with angular features. He inspected the singer with yellow eyes, then finished his cigar in a long drag. A coughing fit wracked his lean frame while he hunted for space in the crowded ashtray for his cigar stub. His cough grew worse as he fished a new cigar out of his vest pocket and fumbled with a matchbook. The singer leaned close, took his match from him, and lit his cigar. As Roll puffed away at it, the singer resumed her circuit of the room.

Hondo watched Ben watching her. He placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I do not think you have ever met a woman like that one. When you see someone like her, you should be on your guard. And when you don’t see her, well, even more so!”

“Thanks for the advice,” Ben murmured.

Hondo picked up Ben’s drink, swirled the melting ice cubes around, and downed half of it in a gulp. “I think I should call it an early night, eh? Wouldn’t want to get in your way.” Ben could not conceal his surprise. Hondo chuckled. “You do not last as long in this business as I have without learning to read people. I must admit, you took me a while. Unlike your friends there.” He nodded in the direction of the entrance.

Ben turned to look. Making their way toward his table were his sometime-partner, Anatole “Skyguy” Walker, and Anatole’s protégé, Akosua Tanner. Anatole was a lanky young man with tousled brown hair and a scar over one eye. Akosua was small and wiry, and she had her black braids in a pair of plaits that rested on her shoulders. Anatole kept his hands in his jacket pockets while casting dark glances at everyone he passed, as though considering whether to arrest them on the spot. Akosua, on the other hand, strolled behind Anatole with a bouncy walk, barely suppressing a smile as she goggled at the gathered gangsters.

Hondo walked away in a direction that would keep him from crossing paths with Anatole and Akosua, giving Ben a wave over his shoulder as he went. Ben fought to keep his expression under control as the other agents sat down at his table. Akosua threw one arm over the back of her chair and scanned the room, now openly grinning. Anatole raised his eyebrows at Ben, silently asking a question.

Ben leaned forward and said as softly as he could, “What are you doing in here?”

Akosua could no longer suppress her smile. “Whaddayamean, pal? We’s just here ta relax an’ unwind. We don’t need no special reason.”

Ben looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. “Please stop talking like that!”

She shrugged. “I’m blending in! Ain’t that the way mooks in this joint talk?”

“No!” Ben hissed. “Well, okay, perhaps some of them do, but you’ll draw attention to yourself.”

Anatole whispered, more loudly than Ben would have liked, “We’re here to find out what’s taking so long.”

Ben caught sight of the singer. She had finished circling the room and was climbing back onto the stage.

Akosua laughed. “I tink I see’s da holdup.” She nudged Anatole, then nodded at the stage. Anatole’s eyes followed hers, and he smirked as the singer disappeared behind the curtain.

Luckily, before Anatole could say anything, a waitress came over. She looked Anatole and Akosua up and down. “What can I get you?”

Akosua’s eyes shone. “Make mine a whiskey on the rocks, doll,” she drawled. Ben’s eyes went wide, and he tried to catch Akosua’s gaze and shake his head, but she was having too much fun. “You know what? Make that a double.”

The waitress’s brown eyes found Anatole’s. “And you?”

Anatole chuckled at his protégé’s antics. “Just an iced tea for me, thanks.”

Ben let out a groan and raised a hand to his forehead, massaging his temple with his fingertips. The waitress gave Akosua and Anatole a curious look, then went off to get their drinks.

Akosua looked at the spot where the singer had gone backstage. “She’s pale,” she remarked.

Anatole slapped Ben on the back. “Not your usual type, is she?” Anatole asked.

Ben risked a glance around the room. His heart skipped when he saw that the elegant gangster known as “Count” Duceau had a wary eye on their table. Duceau was a cut above the other patrons of Hondo’s: Ben knew for a fact that Duceau’s cufflinks matched the straight razor hidden up his sleeve. If Duceau was leaving, it wouldn’t take long for others to follow suit.

It was now or never, and as a bonus, Ben wouldn’t have to answer Anatole’s question. He gave Anatole and Akosua a look so serious that both of their smiles disappeared. “Here goes.” Ben stood from his chair, reached into his jacket, pulled out a whistle, put it to his lips, and blew.

Instantly, the room was full of confusion. Chairs scraped back and gruff voices shouted as the gangsters stood and rushed for the doors. Ben dropped the whistle and reached into his jacket to his shoulder holster, pulling his revolver free. At the same time, Anatole and Akosua pushed the table over, and the three of them took cover behind it.

They were not a moment too soon: by the bar, Blaine produced a pair of pistols from beneath his trench coat and took aim through the milling crowd at Ben and his friends. Ben fired high, breaking a lamp above the bar and sending glass shards crashing down over Blaine’s shoulders. The gunman took cover behind the bar, and Ben took a moment to look around.

Federal agents streamed into the room through the packed exits, brandishing weapons and overwhelming the surprised gangsters. In the confusion, a few shots rang out as some gangsters decided to try their luck and the agents replied in kind.

A flash of movement by the stage made Ben turn his head. Seeing federal agents entering through the main doors, some gangsters were fleeing backstage. A terrible thought struck Ben: the area backstage would be a very dangerous place, as desperate gangsters sought to hide or make a stand, while the federal agents would be jumpy in the dark and cramped space.

Anatole saw Ben’s anguished expression. “We’ll take care of Blaine,” he said, his automatic in his hand.

Akosua nodded, managing a smile as she fired over the table to keep Blaine’s head down. “Yeah, you go after the dame.”

Ben nodded to them and ran to the stage, weaving between abandoned tables and overturned chairs. When he reached the stage, he vaulted up and hurried behind the curtain. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He found himself in a sort of corridor, and he hurried along it to a door hanging ajar. His heart pounded in his chest, and he took a moment to gulp down a breath to steady himself. He ducked through the door and found himself face-to-face with a sweating Gene Rolle.

It was hard to say which of them was more surprised. The gangster started to bring up his pistol, yelling, “You’ll never take me--!” That was as far as he made it before Ben, acting on instinct and adrenaline, shot Rolle’s gun from his hand. Rolle dropped his pistol, cradling his injured hand to his chest.

Frowning at the delay, Ben pulled handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Rolle to a nearby pipe. He kicked Rolle’s pistol out of his reach, sending it spinning into the darkness.

“Sorry to rush,” Ben said as he frisked Rolle in case he had more weapons. Ben found a switchblade in Rolle’s sock and tossed it after the pistol. “Don’t go anywhere!” he quipped.

Rolle shook his uninjured fist, but Ben was already hurrying deeper into the labyrinth behind the stage. Numerous obstacles littered his path in the gloomy half-light. He tripped over a chair, kicked an empty paint bucket, and pointed his gun at a shape that turned out to be a discarded jacket draped over a stepladder.

For just a moment, a bright rectangle appeared up ahead as a light turned on in a dressing room. Ben caught a glimpse of the pale singer in the black dress before the door closed again.

Ben made his way to the door and paused with his hand on the doorknob. What would he say to her? He felt suddenly like a tongue-tied schoolboy. Shaking his head, Ben reminded himself that he was there to clear the area behind the stage. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

She was sitting in front of a mirror. Her reflection made eye contact with him. She smirked, then turned. “Don’t you feds knock?” she asked, her voice rich with contempt.

For a moment he was caught off guard. That was not the reaction he had expected. She regarded him coolly, waiting for a response. “I'll be sure to send flowers ahead next time.”

Something changed in her eyes. She took her time looking him up and down. She stood as if making a decision, the sinuous motion bringing her within a step of Ben. “What if I were to ask to see your… warrant?”

Ben reminded himself that he not there to exchange quips. It took him a long moment to remember the official reason he had entered her room. “This place is being raided. It’s not safe. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She did not look worried in the slightest. Instead, her lips raised slightly, as though she had just tasted something she liked. “How sweet. You’re here to protect me from the scary gangsters?”

There was something about her nonchalance in the face of danger that was making it hard for him to concentrate. He tried to remain professional. “There are some desperate men in the building. Murderers…”

The contempt returned to her voice. “Murderers?” she scoffed.

He could feel her losing interest. It suddenly became very hard to resist the impulse to flirt. “I couldn’t stand by and risk having dangerous criminals run into you in the dark.” He could only resist the impulse for so long. “I wouldn’t want their fates on my conscience.”

Her smile showed her teeth. She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand ran down his beard and caressed his chin, letting the hair bristle between her fingers. “And what about your fate?”

“Well, I think I should take you back to the station. In the interest of public safety.” He leaned closer.

She laughed and pushed his face aside, more roughly than he felt was necessary. “Thanks, but I already have two escorts to make sure I get home safe.” She stepped over to her dresser and opened a drawer, removing a pair of holstered automatic handguns. Ben’s eyes widened. She sat on a chair and lifted a leg, strapping the pistol to her thigh. As she strapped the second pistol to her other leg, she met his eyes and caught him staring.

Ben didn’t look away. “Looks like you three are well acquainted.”

She stood and prowled over to him. “Jealous?” she asked, her voice soft, yet carrying a mocking bite.

Ben’s smile widened. “Now I know my competition.”

She slipped past him and opened the door. Before she left, she turned. “You’re getting the idea.” She disappeared out the door.

When Ben followed a moment later, he was not surprised to find no sign of her. He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and went to rejoin Anatole and Akosua, pausing to collect Gene Rolle along the way.

The two agents were talking to several police officers who were leading away gangsters in handcuffs. When they saw Ben, they came over. An officer took Rolle away while Ben asked, “How’s Blaine?”

Anatole shrugged with a casual smile. “He’ll live.”

“He was no match for us!” Akosua declared.

Anatole studied Ben’s face. “How about you? Did you find who you were looking for?”

Ben rubbed his chin, remembering the touch of long, pale fingers. “Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Saturday night I was down town  
> Working for the F.B.I.  
> Sitting in a nest of bad men  
> Whiskey bottles piling high  
> Boot legging boozer on the west side  
> Full of people who are doing wrong  
> Just about to call up the D.A. man  
> When I heard this woman singing a song.
> 
> A pair of forty fives made me open my eyes  
> My temperature started to rise  
> She was a long cool woman in a black dress  
> Just a five nine  
> Beautiful  
> Tall  
> With just one look I was a bad mess  
> Cause that long cool woman had it all.
> 
> The Hollies, "[Long Cool Woman (in a Black Dress)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qKOv3VBJcc)"


End file.
